It's Important to Me
by questionsleftunanswered
Summary: John and Sherlock's relationship faces their families.
1. Only Because You Want Me To

The air in their room was heavy. It reeked of sex and satisfaction.

Sherlock lay across John so that his head rested on the shorter man's shoulders. John was tracing his fingers lazily along Sherlock's spine, pausing at every vertebra. They had been like this for nearly an hour, tangled in each other's arms and ignoring the busy world beyond that door.

"Sherlock?" John asked the darkness.

"Hm?" was the grumbled reply, muffled since Sherlock's face was still pressed into John's shoulder.

"Would you want to meet Harry?" John had wanted Sherlock to meet his sister for a while now. They had been together for a month, already living together before that. John thought it was about time Sherlock met his family. Maybe even Clara depending on how well she and Harry were getting on.

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

"Than I will."

"But you can't examine her, Sherlock. I know you can't help but pick up on things, but you can't go asking her about them. She doesn't know what you do and has obviously never met a consulting detective before. Promise me you won't deduce her." John left out saying that Harry didn't know that Sherlock was his boyfriend. They had never actually called each other such. It was always just understood. Both were also far too jealous for anything except an exclusive relationship.

"Do I have to, John? Maybe she'll be impressed with my brilliance."

"Yes, you have to."

This was met with silence once again. John waited a bit before continuing.

"I'm having dinner with her tomorrow. Already told her I'd be bringing someone."

"You assumed I'd go? Or were you just so confident in being able to coheres me into this."

"Confident. Always confident." John kissed the top of Sherlock's head. He had since stopped tracing Sherlock's spine and just rested his hand in the small of his lover's back. "Go to sleep. I'll have tea for you when you wake up."

The next day went by in a blur. It was the distinct "day after" feeling that every case brought. There were mountains of paperwork and interviews. Naturally, Sherlock ignored everything and everyone in favor of sitting in the corner on his phone. He occasionally offered insults those new enough to still walk past him. Others gave him a wide berth and went about their business as if the child in the corner didn't exist.

"Sherlock, you can't sit here and insult people all day," John took up the seat beside Sherlock and offered him a mug of tea. It was Yard tea which meant it was cheap and not made for flavor. Unlike the tea they had at home that John was meticulous about getting a proper kind.

Sherlock turned up his nose, "I don't want tea, John."

"Then get up and help us with the papers." Even though John wasn't a Yarder and had no obligation to them, he always stuck around after a case to clean up paperwork and tie up loose ends. Lestrade was always grateful because an extra set of hands meant that the work was done faster and they could all go for their traditional celebratory drink sooner.

"There is no point for me to do Scotland Yard's paperwork. It's good enough that I do their job for them!" Sherlock protested. He took his tea from John's hands and sipped it; making a face every time and then drinking more. He always hated Scotland Yard's tea.

John gave up and went back to helping Lestrade.

After they were done, John went over to collect Sherlock. Tapping him on the knee John smiled, "Sherlock, we're done. Come on. We have dinner tonight, remember?"

"Yes, I know. Where are we going?" Sherlock stood, setting aside the still half full tea mug.

"Angelo's." John took Sherlock's hand and began walking away. It was long since known amongst the Yarders that they were together. Sherlock didn't like public displays of affection, but his want to make John happy was more than his distaste for the smiles and winks from the less mature officers.

This time, only a few heads turned their way. One of the newer officers, the same one who had been the brunt of Sherlock's snide comments, now gave Sherlock a wolf whistle. That was a horrible idea.

The day had been dull, Sherlock was tired of sitting and being docile. Sherlock turned his head slightly and shot a cutting look towards the other man.

John had caught the movement and slid his hand up Sherlock's arm to rest just beneath his shoulder. He leaned in close and whispered, "Sherlock, let's just go home."

Sherlock stiffened, but started determined towards the door, "You owe me." Then he was pulling John away and into a cab; bound for Baker Street.

They got home and Sherlock paid the cabbie exactly. The man looked a bit upset, apparently Sherlock was known for generous tips.

John unlocked the door and went inside. He walked into the kitchen and started making tea. Sherlock hung his coat and scarf up and tugged off his jacket, resting it on the back of John's armchair. He sat down and templed his fingers, thinking about John and their dinner tonight and John and what he wanted to do after dinner and John.

"Sherlock, here's your tea," John said offering Sherlock a mug.

"Oh, thanks," Sherlock mumbled, accepting the offered mug of hot tea. He took a sip and then quickly released it, spilling tea all over the floor. "HOT! John why did you make it so hot?" He whined.

"You have to let it sit for a bit, Sherlock, to avoid burning your tongue." John set his mug down and kneeled beside Sherlock. "Stick out your tongue."

Sherlock did as he was told, continuing to talk, "But why isthn't it alweady cooled down for me?" His speech was slow and disjointed because his tongue was being examined by John.

"Because I thought you were capable of drinking tea on your own. Your tongue is fine. A bit red, but nothing bad. Hang on, I'll get you ice to suck on." John left and returned with an ice cube and offered it to Sherlock. He took it and immediately popped it into his mouth. John then went and got a small towel to clean up the remains of Sherlock's drink.

"We are meeting Harry and possibly Clara in about two hours at Angelo's." John said taking a seat back on the couch and gingerly sipping his own steaming mug of tea.

"Why do I have to meet her, again? You and Harry don't get on. Why should she and I?" Sherlock asked.

"Because she's my only family and I want you to meet her."

"Fine. But that means you have to come and meet Mummy." At this idea a broad grin spread across Sherlock's face, "Oh that'll please Mycroft."

"Why do I get the feeling that that will in no way please your brother?"

"He is very protective of our mother. Doesn't like other people meeting her because he thinks they may use her as leverage against either one of us."

"Isn't that a bit paranoid?"

"Yes. Well, he doesn't lock her away or anything of the sort, but he does have her under similar surveillance that he has us both under."

"I'm sure she loves that."

"She doesn't know."

"Naturally."

They lapsed into silence; drinking their own tea, both ignoring the telly in favor of their own thoughts. This was one of the best parts of their relationship, John though. They could have these long open-ended silences and neither had a problem. It wasn't awkward, it wasn't intrusive, it just was.

Eventually, John had finished his tea and both went to get ready for dinner.

John favored a navy jumper with a white stripe around the edges. He wore regular trousers and a pair of trainers. Satisfied with his cleanliness and appearance, he went back downstairs.

John stopped in the doorway. He could hear Sherlock still in the shower. Checking his watch, he realized that they only had about 45 minutes until they had to meet Harry. He went into Sherlock's room and knocked on the door, "Sherlock. Hurry up would you? It'll take at least 20 minutes to get there in the first place!"

The water shut off and John heard the shower curtain being pulled back. A few moments later the door opened and John unconsciously held his breath for a half a second. Sherlock stood in the middle of the bathroom wreathed in steam and dripping wet. He had a towel around his waist and a smile on his face. His dark curls were plastered to his head with the occasional random wayward curl sticking out at an awkward angle. He looked perfect.

"Must you rush me, John?" He said, obviously agitated by the intrusion.

"Yes. Dry off and get dressed. We have to be there before Harry." John said. He quickly kissed Sherlock and left the bathroom. Curious as to what Sherlock intended to wear, John went to Sherlock's closet to see what he had hanging out and ready.

A pair of fitted dark jeans, a deep green button down shirt, and a black jacket was hanging crisp and neat on his door. John went rifling through Sherlock's large closet in search of a tie to match. Sherlock walked out, hair partially towel dried and towel secured low on his hips.

"I will not wear a tie." He said, leaving no room for argument in his tone.

"I know you have one that would match this shirt perfectly." John countered.

"But you're wearing bloody trainers and a jumper!" Sherlock grabbed John around the waist and pulled him away from the closet. This caused John to stumble a bit and loosen the towel around Sherlock's hips. The bit of fabric fell to the floor and John found himself pressed against Sherlock's still damp, naked body; more specifically his half hard cock.

"Really, John? You could've just asked me you know." Sherlock smiled. Then he was kissing John. Needy and rough with all the urgency of being in a rush but still needing to get off immediately.

John tilted his head up and pushed his fingers into Sherlock's wet hair, ignoring the water droplets that splattered his face. He pulled back and slowly started falling to his knees, kissing a trail as he went.

He took Sherlock in his mouth and immediately took him all the way in, eliciting a deep, throaty groan from Sherlock. Sherlock leaned against the bed post and ran his fingers through John's dishwater colored hair.

John pulled back and did that magnificent thing with his tongue that nearly had Sherlock coming right then. John shifted a bit to suck each of Sherlock's testicles individually. Then he took his cock back in his mouth and lapped at the head. Again John took Sherlock as far as he could. He loved the sensation of the head of Sherlock's cock against the back of his throat. Hollowing out his cheeks, John sucked harder and traced his tongue up and down the veins.

He could feel that Sherlock was on the edge. He could hear it as well. Sherlock's constant stream of, "Yes. Oh god yes more. Fuck, John, harder," was becoming more broken until coherent words were eradicated and replaced with moans of pleasure. John loved this control. He knew exactly what to do to get certain sounds out of Sherlock and exactly how to push him close without letting him finish.

Finally, John's lips met the curly hair at the base of Sherlock's cock and he flicked his tongue over the perfect spot that always set Sherlock off. Sherlock let out a loud moan and came in John's mouth. John swallowed every drop, milking Sherlock until he was entirely spent.

Sherlock slid, still naked and wet, to the floor. He was now slick with water and sweat. John licked the last traces of Sherlock's come from the corners of his mouth and tried to ignore the obvious tent in his trousers.

While Sherlock calmed down on the floor, John was back to gathering up clothes for him to wear.

"C'mon Sherlock. We've just lost 20 minutes." John picked up a towel and began drying Sherlock's hair only to be swatted away.

"I am not a child, John." Sherlock stood, finished drying most of his hair and quickly threw on the clothes John had laid out. Even in his rush, Sherlock looked pristine. He left the tie lying on his bed and threaded his fingers through John's.

John tugged him out of his room and towards the door, only pausing to let Sherlock grab his coat and scarf. Then they were away again, in a cab towards Angelo's.

They pulled up outside and Sherlock paid the cabbie, this time adding an extra twenty quid. They walked hand-in-hand into the restaurant.

"Good, we beat Harry." John said, claiming a booth instead of the usual table by the window. Sherlock only nodded and took the seat beside John, both of them facing the door. Angelo came out and greeted them as always and brought a candle with him.

"Thank you, Angelo," Sherlock said, "And we'll have another guest, possibly two."

"No problem! Their meals, free! I have been doing good business, Sherlock! They tell me you send them?" Angelo replied, always delighted when Sherlock shows up.

"I may have mentioned it around the Yard." Sherlock smiled. Angelo was someone blessed enough to constantly be in Sherlock's good graces.

"I appreciate it. Always good to hear about people enjoying my food. I'll leave you two and your guest to dinner." Angelo smiled and went back towards the kitchen.

Sherlock neglected his menu, already knowing what he wanted. He rested his hand high on John's thigh.

John flipped through the familiar menu, settling on the risotto. He rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock shook his shoulder, "Your sister is here. And she brought Clara."

"Yes, I can see her, Sherlock." John stood and waved Harry and Clara over.

Harry came over and warmly hugged John across the table. "John, you know Clara."

"Yes certainly, good to see you again." John hugged Clara as well before the three took their seat. Sherlock had remained silent through the social interaction that he was so unfamiliar with.

"So, Sherly, good to finally meet you. I'd love to say I've heard a lot about you, but we both know that's not quite true." Harry said as if she was talking about the weather.

John sputtered into his water. _Sherly?_ Harry had no idea what she was getting into. His sister ignored his reaction and kept going.

"This is Clara. My ex-wife and girlfriend. And then not girlfriend. And then girlfriend again." Harry tossed her arm across Clara's shoulders as if to make her point.

Sherlock still sat in silence beside John, his hand still resting on John. Harry picked up on Sherlock's distance and sought to draw him in. John could tell what she was going to do. After a quick glance at Sherlock to make sure he didn't notice, John shook his head at Harry. She only shot a ignorant smile at him and turned to Sherlock.

"So, Sherly, how's your business of playing Yarder going?" She goaded. John shot her a look to kill before glancing at Sherlock.

Sherlock still sat there silently, but the hand on John tightened fractionally.

"Harry," John began, "Sherlock is a Consulting Detective and a huge asset to Scotland Yard. He closes more cases than their top bloke." Sherlock's hand on his thigh loosened as bit when John was done. A smug look had replaced the previously uncaring façade. John doubted that Harry picked up on the change, but he could see it.

"That sounds excellent, Sherly. I'm sure John knows he's lucky to have you." Clara offered.

"My name is Sherlock, not _Sherly_." Sherlock said with just the barest hint of a sneer, "And yes, John is fully aware of how lucky he is to have me."

All four looked up and thanked Angelo as he placed their orders before them. They ate in silence until all were done. Harry had gone through four properly full glasses of fine red wine. After the fourth John ordered her water instead, earning him a sour look.

"So how are you and John doing?" Clara asked Sherlock casually.

"Perfectly." Sherlock replied curtly, not trying to hide his want to go home.

"You and Harry?" John asked Clara in return.

"We're fine as well." Clara said with a smile.

John, Harry, and Clara made small talk while Sherlock still sat silent.

They said their good nights and each pair filed into a separate cab.

Once inside, Sherlock visibly loosened up.

"You could've been a bit nicer, Sherlock." John chided.

"I didn't want to. I went. I didn't share all the very interesting things I picked up on. I did exactly what you wanted me to do." Sherlock said defensively.

"Sherlock, you weren't friendly at all."

"Friendly wasn't in the bargain."

John gave up and took Sherlock's hand. He rested against the taller man during the ride home.

They reached Baker Street, this time paying the cabbie his due amount. Still holding onto Sherlock's hand, John unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Making his way upstairs, John replayed dinner. He dreaded the inevitable call from Harry the next morning, dissecting her first impression of Sherlock.

John flopped down on the couch. Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, mumbling about how he should have been home earlier to check on his bone marrow soaking in lemon juice. John just blocked out Sherlock's scientific jargin, opting to spread out on the couch and close his eyes. He just wanted a bit of quiet and hoped that Sherlock's experiments would keep him such.

"John, I know you're still awake so there's no sense in trying to fake it." Sherlock's voice was close. He cracked one eye open. The consulting detective was awkwardly crouching down so that he was eye level with John as he lay on the couch. John had to stifle a chuckle at the sight.

"What, Sherlock? I'm trying to sleep." John brought one hand up to rub his eyes, the other lazily dragging through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock knelt down beside John and sat back on his haunches.

"I was thinking a bit-"

"Shocker, Sherlock Holmes thinking. I never would have guessed it."

"Anyway, I was thinking about dinner and all and how that was important to you. I wanted you to know that I am aware my behavior was less than satisfactory." Sherlock gracefully stood up and returned to his bone marrow.

John realized that Sherlock had just apologized to him. It came as a great shock; one that he would not just let slip by. Sherlock was going to make up for his rubbish attitude during dinner as well. John had the perfect idea.


	2. Dinner for Six

"But I don't want you to meet her. Besides, Mycroft is incredibly over protective of Mummy." Sherlock lay draped over the sofa wearing his usual blue dressing down and pyjamas. The fact that it was 3 in the afternoon made no difference.

"I want to meet her. Consider it a learning experience." John did not even both looking over the edge of his book. He sat comfortably cross legged in his worn arm chair.

Sherlock got up and flounced towards the kitchen. He began making tea. John could hear the slamming and the none-too-gentle production of Sherlock's very specific blend of tea. Then there came a very audible "Fuck! Oh, shit."

John got up and rushed to the kitchen, "Sherlock!" He went over to Sherlock who was clutching one hand in the other. His face screwed up in pain and agitation.

"Sherlock, let me see what you did," John said. He adopted the composure of a doctor. He gently took Sherlock's hand in his own. There was an angry red burn covering the heel of his palm. It had already begun to blister, but was not anything too serious.

"Sherlock, how did you do this?" John let Sherlock's hand go and went to the freezer to get ice. He wrapped it in a towel and brought Sherlock back to the couch.

Sherlock kept his satisfaction to himself. He had honestly not intended to burn his hand, but that he did was distracting John from their previous conversation.

"I asked you how you did this." John had taken the seat beside him and was holding Sherlock's hand in his lap, the towel of ice resting on top of it.

"I went to pick up the kettle and it was hot." Sherlock replied.

"Of course it was hot!"

"I know tea gets hot, John. It was an accident."

"Right, well, please be more careful. If this had happened with the experiment you were doing last week, you would have burned your hand completely off."

"Yes, thank you, Mummy." Sherlock bit his tongue. He had just reminded John.

"Right. About that, I am going to meet your mother. Mycroft is welcome to come and bring the Calvary as well. I want to meet your family." John persisted.

"Fine, but don't expect her to like you. Mother is very particular with…social standings. Undoubtedly why Mycroft is her favourite." Sherlock said with an edge of bitterness.

John gathered Sherlock into his lap and tucked Sherlock's head under his chin; burying his nose in the lazy curls.

After a while, John asked, "Does it still hurt? It wasn't that bad of a burn."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said curtly. His long limbs were spilling over the side of the sofa.

John lazing ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, enjoying the rare silence. Sherlock rolled and rearranged himself, resting his head in John's lap, his hand slung over his head. Stretched out on the couch, John couldn't help but think, once again, that Sherlock was amazing.

"About Mummy," John began.

Sherlock quickly cut him off, "I don't want to talk about it. I want to lay here, let you feel important by taking care of my hand, and go through my file of algorithms."

John is insistent. "Sherlock. You can't just drop the subject. If I wanted to, I could just meet her on my own."

"I'd like to see you try. You couldn't get through Mycroft. He's annoyingly through."

"He might help me out," John looks down at his lap, giving Sherlock a questioning glance, "Mycroft is alright with me, right?"

"Mycroft's opinion is impartial."

"Wait," John's tone sliding into concern, "Your brother doesn't like me? What have I ever done to the bloke? Do the rest of your siblings like me?"

"Mycroft doesn't like anyone in relation to Mummy. I have no idea how Violet or Sherrinford view you. I don't speak to them as much." Sherlock returned John's confusion with a sideways smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

John gave up and slouched against the couch, causing Sherlock to shift again in order to be comfortable.

They stayed like that for the rest of the day, each occasionally getting up for tea. On occasion, Sherlock would break the silence to ask John questions. John would always set Moby Dick aside and answer.

"John, would you still be with me if I wasn't this smart?"

"Yes."

Ten minutes later.

"John, how many times have you read that book?"

"Four times, I think. I can't really remember."

Ten minutes later.

"John, can we go out for dinner tonight?"

"Yes, we can invite your Mum and siblings."

Twenty minutes later.

"John, I'm bored."

"That's nice, Sherlock."

Thirty minutes later.

John set his book aside, his hand automatically returned to stroking Sherlock's head.

"So tomorrow night then. We'll have dinner with Mycroft, Violet, Sherrinford, and your Mum." John stood and left, leaving no room for argument.

He went to the window and waved to the CCTV camera. There was an instant knock at the door. John opened it to see a man dressed in common clothes.

"You waved, sir." He said.

"Yes. Please tell Mycroft that Sherlock and I are having dinner with their Mum tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir." The man snapped to attention and then walked off.

John went back into their flat and was greeted by a rather cross Sherlock.

John just reclaimed his seat on the couch.

"Sherlock, are you ready?" John called up the stairs. They were already late. It was going to take about an hour to even get to Mayfair. John had no desire to start off meeting Sherlock's Mum on a bad impression.

"I'm coming." Sherlock replied from their bedroom.

John was dressed in a plain black suit and tie. Nothing exceptional, but he still felt that he should dress properly.

Sherlock came down the stairs and looked simply elegant, naturally. A crisp black suit, plain white shirt and…the next sight stopped John in his tracks.

"Sherlock, are your shoes…sparkly?" John asked tentatively. Looking down, he could see that he was right. Sherlock would have been wearing regular black leather shoes, were it not for the incredible amount of sparkles that coated every surface of them.

"Mum bought them for me. She though they would make me more…appealing. I have to wear them. I have sought out a loophole many times. Mum insists that I wear them." Sherlock forced out. John knew that Sherlock would never voluntarily wear such noticeable shoes. He was even more eager to meet the woman who had this level of power over the man who seemed to be a god.

"Did you intend to wear a tie?" John asked.

"John I am already in these flamboyant shoes, and you know my distaste for ties. I have no obligations that require a neck tie." Sherlock replied haughtily.

John bit his lip. He really wanted to ask Sherlock if Mycroft was required to wear certain things as well, but he knew better than to push the issue.

They slid into the limousine that was idling outside of their flat.

"G'day Misters Holmes," said the driver amicably.

"We're not married, Andrew." Sherlock said curtly. John was put off by the venom in his voice. Then he realized that Andrew had automatically assumed that John would take Sherlock's name. He couldn't place it, but this bothered him. He set it aside to worry about later, at the moment there were more important things to survive.

"M' apologies, Mr. Holmes. I had assumed differently." Andrew didn't seem the least bit embarrassed.

They spent the rest of the time in pleasant conversation. About 30 minutes in, Sherlock hand crept over to cover John's. It was a simple gesture, but John appreciated it all the same.

By the time they pulled up outside of the sprawling Holmes Estate, John was feeling better about meeting the family.

The moment he followed Sherlock out of the car, he was flooded with questions and wishes of welcome from a young woman who had eyes as pale and sharp as Sherlock's and who was nearly as tall.

"Hello, mate. Violet," She said, extending her hand, "Youngest Holmes. I've heard absolutely nothing about you, John. Well, save for your name. Mum won't stop talking about 'Sherlock's close friend' who was coming to dinner. It's fantastic to see that Sherlock has proper feelings. I've wondered about him, though I do know he is a big softie underneath."

She continued jabbering during their walk up to the house. John was struggling to keep up with the onslaught of information. He managed to remember that Violet was Sherlock's junior by two years; the ages being Violet, Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherrinford. She had just returned from a trip to America visiting Hopkins Medical Center for a study that she was doing for Oxford.

It seemed that all of the Holmes family was brilliant.

They were led by Violet to the living room, passing a portrait of each child on their way.

John stopped before the portrait of a younger looking Sherlock. He looked to be about 19 or 20. Though it was beautifully done, the artist had failed to capture the severity of his gaze. Nonetheless, Sherlock looked impeccable. He stood before a garden that was overflowing with flowers of every imaginable color. It contrasted greatly with the sharp black suit that Sherlock's past was wearing. It was clearly tailored and designer, John expected nothing less. Sherlock's waist was just as small and his stance just as assertive as John knew it to be. The only significant change was his hair. It was short; really short. Short enough that it didn't even curl.

"What do you see in this?" Sherlock said. He had stepped up behind John and stared disdainfully as his past self. "The only one worse than this is Mycroft's. Sherrinford and Violet were perfectly happy with theirs."

"I don't see anything wrong with yours, Sherlock. You look rather dashing." John smiled up at the taller man. He was met with a dismissive hmph as Sherlock took his hand and pulled him away.

As they walked together into the living room, John was shocked with how simple it was. He was expecting Versailles. Instead, the room was simply furnished. There was a large television on the opposite wall. Before them was a very open space, with two couches and an arm chair arranged so that the television is the focus. To the right was a large bookshelf, and to the left was its twin.

"Sherlock, John," Mycroft said, nodding to each of them, "So good of you to join us." He was standing behind the large armchair, his hands resting on either side. Seated in the chair was an older woman. John couldn't bring himself to call her elderly, because the term didn't fit her. She was old, yes, but she was in no way frail or fragile looking. She sat with a straight back and a direct gaze, eyes very much like Sherlock's.

"This is our mother, Enola," Mycroft rested on hand on the woman's shoulder possessively.

"Hello, Ma'am." John said, raising one hand and offering it to her.

Enola Holmes took it; her grip unexpectedly firm.

"The pleasure is mine, Dr. Watson," She said. Her voice was lofty in a way that implied she knew she was important but did not impose it. "It is good to finally see someone compatible with Sherlock. He is always so aloof. Even as a child he never quite fit in with his peers."

John didn't know how to respond to that. He had always known Sherlock to be distant from those not on his level, but he had not expected Enola to be so frank.

"Mother, I am adequately social." Sherlock said, the hurt concealed from all but John.

"Of course you are, dear," was her simple reply.

"Dinner is ready," said a tall man walking into the room. He was the same height as Sherlock, but other than that, he was drastically different from the rest of the Holmes.

"Thank you, Sherrinford," said Mycroft dismissively.

Sherrinford nodded and took a seat on the couch opposite of Sherlock and John, beside Violet.

John took in the eldest Holmes's appearance. In contrast to Sherlock and Mycroft's perfect suits, Sherrinford favored cargo pants and a plain navy polo. His hair was longer and had no curl to it. It was also pale blonde. He was much more relaxed than the rest of them, even more so than Violet. His arms rested across the back of the sofa, muscles pulling at the edges of his sleeves. John couldn't help but think that Sherrinford was an extremely attractive man.

"Did you cook, Sherri?" asked Violet. She moved over and rested her head companionably on her brother's shoulder.

"'Course I did," replied, dropping one arm around her shoulders, "even made you a proper pie, Vi."

"What kind?"

"Pumpkin, moron."

Violet punched him jokingly. He doubled over in mock pain.

Sherlock smiled at the exchange. John smiled because Sherlock was happy.

"Are you ready for dinner, Mother?" Mycroft asked Enola.

"Certainly," She said and stood. The rest of the room stood with her and went into the dining room.

The table was laden with a multitude of mouth-watering food. John took the seat between Sherlock and Sherrinford; Enola sat at the head of the table. They were silent through most of the meal; the silence occasionally broken by polite conversation.

After, they gathered for tea back in the family room.

"So, John, Sherlock has told us absolutely nothing about you. Rather rude of him, really. Why don't you tell us about yourself?" asked Violet.

Five pairs of eyes were suddenly turned in his direction.

"There isn't really much to tell," John managed. It was true. He didn't think of his life as the kind to share at dinners. He was trying to think of something significant that he had accomplished when Sherlock butt in.

"John has the Victoria Cross. He was a PMO in Afghanistan," Sherlock bragged.

"Really now? Congrats, mate." said Sherrinford, "Guy I used to fuck had one of those I think."

"Sherrinford, we don't use that kind of language in present company!" snapped Mycroft, clearly caring about his mother and not anyone else.

"Sorry, Molly," Sherrinford replied, smirking as Mycroft gave an agitated grunt at being addressed as "Molly."

"Will you two be staying the night?" Enola looked up from her cup of tea, ignoring the bickering of her sons.

"Afraid not, Mother. We have urgent matters to take care of at home," Sherlock replied, a bit too quickly.

"Shut up, Sherly," Violet chimed, "You and John can take your old bedroom."

That was the end of the matter.


	3. This is What I Want from You

Sherlock's childhood bedroom was much as John anticipated. There were stacks of medical journals and obscure reports that only those in that specific field could read and understand. There were notebooks stacked in the corners that had handwritten scribbles all along both sides and in the margins. There were no posters from pop culture, nor any magazines depicting rugby on the cover. Rather, Sherlock's childhood seemed to be much that same as his adulthood: intellectual over social.

John shucked off his suit and rummaged in a few drawers, withdrawing a plain grey t-shirt and navy sweat pants. Sherlock had occupied the bathroom second, so John was left sitting in the large bed by himself. It was the center of the large room, and faced a television identical to the one downstairs.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wearing maroon, silk pyjamas that had an intertwined "SH" on the left breast.

"I think your jim-jams, Sherlock," John said. He could tell Sherlock was less than pleased about staying the night and had no intention of asking him why he didn't wear them at home.

"They're Sherrinford's," Sherlock replied, "I never wore them, but considering our present circumstances, I have no other choice."

"You could sleep in nothing, or wear one of those t-shirts you have," John pointed towards the drawer where he fetched his pyjamas.

"I don't wear any of those clothes. They itch." Sherlock argued.

"They feel fine to me."

"You are used to itchy clothing."

"Fine, can you just please come to bed, I'm rather tired."

"Sure." Sherlock shed his clothes and stood naked beside the bed, "I prefer nothing anyway."

He crawled in to join John and curled himself impossibly around the shorter man.

"John, make it stop," Sherlock whined, nuzzling against John's chest.

"Make what stop?" John pressed his lips against Sherlock's curls, content in the familiar scent that was unmistakably Sherlock's.

"Everything, please make everything stop," Sherlock clutched to John like he was falling from reality.

John just held him back, accustomed to the sudden change in Sherlock's demeanor.

"What are you thinking?"

"Radon, Rhenium, Rhodium, Rubidium, Ruthenium, Rutherfordium, Samarium, Scandium, Seaborgium, Selenium, Silicon, Silver, Sodium, Strontium."

"Tantalum, Technetium, Tellurium, Terbium, Thallium, Thorium, Thulium, Tin."

"You forgot Sulfur." Sherlock pointed out. John could feel his smile against his chest.

"Terribly sorry, lovely." John chuckled.

After a few minutes he asked, "Are you feeling a bit better?"

"No."

"What can I do?" John hated when Sherlock got lost in his own mind. Not only because it hurt him, but also because it always led to a fight.

"Kiss me," Sherlock tilted his head up to face John, every muscle in his neck stretched taut.

John smiled, ducked his head, and kissed Sherlock lovingly, in no hurry to go further.

Sherlock pressed harder against John, insistent. John gently coaxed Sherlock's lips apart and swept his tongue over Sherlock's. Sherlock slid up and instinctively wrapped his arms around John's neck trying to pull him closer.

"Sherlock, love, not here. Not in your room, or even this house," John said. He looked down at Sherlock, the other man's eyes were adverted. "Do you see what I mean?"

"You don't want to impose yourself upon my supposed fond memories associated with this house, specifically this bedroom."

"Yes. This room, this house, they have to hold happy memories."

"John, I had a horrible, lonely childhood," Sherlock said. He shifted so that he was straddling John, his arms still around the shorter man's neck.

"It couldn't have been all bad."

"Sherrinford was always popular and well known. Mycroft was always brilliant and able to manipulate people to him. Violet had every boy chasing her and was every teachers' favorite just because she's smart. I never fit in. I was always 'the other Holmes boy'."

John raised one hand, cupping Sherlock's cheek, "I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve more. You deserve everything."

Sherlock gave a small smile and leaned down to kiss John again. Immediately it changed. Sherlock wasn't just kissing John out of comfort or boredom. He was kissing with purpose, insistent and needy.

Sherlock started rocking his hips back and forth above John, his cock quickly hardening.

John began to protest again, but Sherlock quickly cut him off, "No. I want this."

John fell silent, giving in. Sherlock smiled and began to pull off his t-shirt; gently sucking on the exposed skin. Tossing it aside, Sherlock slid his hand down to cup John over his pants. He slowly kneaded and teased John to hardness. Sherlock, already naked himself, drew the covers over himself and John to block out the chill of the room. He eased John's pants under his arse, just enough to free his erection.

John gasped as Sherlock took him all the way in; the head of John's cock pressing against the back of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock moaned wantonly around John's cock. The vibrations shot through John like lightning.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his voice low; all too aware of the fact that Sherrinford's room was just next door.

Sherlock ignored him and inhaled deeply through his nose, keeping his mouth working on John.

Sherlock released him with a soft pop. "John, please tell me you brought lube. There is none in this room."

"Sherlock, I wasn't exactly planning on shagging you in your Mum's house when we left tonight. No, I don't have anything."

"Fine, spit it is."

Sherlock sucked one finger into his mouth and turned around on top of John, giving the other man a perfect view of Sherlock's arse. Knowing how much John loves this, Sherlock eases one finger inside himself. John watched closely, biting his lip.

"I want to fuck you so badly." John said, sitting up. "You're mine," the last practically a growl. John raised his hand and brought it down harshly on Sherlock's left cheek. Sherlock moaned at the contact, easing another finger inside himself. He began rocking back.

John took Sherlock's hand from his arse and replaced it with his mouth. Flicking his tongue inside and along the rim of Sherlock's puckered hole. John worked and opened Sherlock, eliciting more moans in that deep vibrato.

"God, John, get on with it," Sherlock said reaching down to grasp his length. John swatted his hand away.

"I don't want you to come yet, Sherlock. I want you to come just from me being buried inside you, fucking you until nothing matters to you except how badly you need my cock in your arse."

"Yes. Anything. All yours, please just get on with it."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John teased, "You have to ask for it."

"Please fuck me."

John kneeled and brought Sherlock's arse to him. Sherlock let out a distinct humph as he was jerked back against John's groin.

John eased the head inside Sherlock, pushing past the initial resistance. They moaned in unison.

"Hard, John. Take me hard." Sherlock curved his head back to look at John over his shoulder.

John brought a hand down on Sherlock's arse again, "You're such a little cockslut. All you want is to be fucked. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, John. I always want to be fucked."

John sank in another few inches, still careful to not hurt Sherlock because the way was still rough with only spit.

"Who do you belong to, Sherlock?"

"Y-nngghh," Sherlock forced out. John had sheathed himself entirely inside the taller, younger man. He began pulling out slowly, not waiting for Sherlock to adjust to his size.

"John. You. Only you.," Sherlock was rocking back on John's cock, fucking himself on it with abandon.

It wasn't long until they were straining and painfully hard; aching and leaking.

"Come for me, Sherlock," John pressed kisses and bites into the heated dip between Sherlock's shoulder-blade; the deeply reddened marks standing out against the alabaster of Sherlock's skin.

John reaching one hand around and began pumping Sherlock's cock with precise, practiced strokes.

Sherlock clenched around John as he came, his come hitting the sheets and then dribbling over John's hand. John milked Sherlock until he was completely dry.

He brought his hand to his mouth and tasted. He came deep inside Sherlock with the taste of Sherlock's come filling his mouth.

After they had both calmed down and washed up as much as they could, Sherlock and John lay in a tangled heap of limbs, sheets, and sweat.

John nuzzled his head against Sherlock's hair and received a grumble against his chest.

This was his favourite part. John knew it was sentimental and that Sherlock would hate it if he voices his thoughts, but John loved sitting in the middle of the night with Sherlock wrapped in his arms. He loved how Sherlock changed after a shag and how much more relaxed he became. It was peaceful in a way that John would always appreciate.

John pressed his lips into the sweat-dampened curls and mumbled, "Do you think Sherrinford heard?"

"Undoubtedly. He has the indecency to bring it up as well. Probably at breakfast."

"Fantastic," John said sarcastically, "We'll be having eggs or something and suddenly our romp in your childhood bed with be the topic of conversation."

"That certainly appears to be the direction of the morning. Though I do know Mycroft will do his best to deter the subject. Violet will probably was to know every detail. Not because of some interest, though, for medical purposes. She's always very interested in anything medical."

"What exactly does she do?"

"Everything. She was a professor for a few years. Then she went and got her Ph.D. in Anatomy and Cell Biology. I believe she is currently working on another Ph.D. in Neuroscience."

"Wait, when did she start university?"

"Around her sixteenth birthday I believe. She always did want to prove herself."

"Why didn't you jump right into university? I'm sure you were smart enough."

"I didn't want to."

"There has to be more to it than simply not wanting to."

"Mycroft didn't."

"That's your reason? You can't stand Mycroft."

"Believe it or not, John, when we were younger we were very much the same as other siblings. Mycroft looked up to Sherrinford, I looked up to Mycroft, and Violet wanted us all to bugger off so she could prove that she was the smartest."

John sat in silence for a few seconds trying to picture a younger Sherlock idolizing his older brother. "It makes sense," he said.

"I know it does."

They spent the rest of the night silent, eventually falling asleep.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

There was a loud pounding on the door that was followed by, "Get your arses up lover-boys! I've got breakfast ready and you two aren't going to get any of the beans if you stay in shagging each other all morning."

John cracked his eyes open, light was streaming in from the impossibly large window to his right. Sherlock was still lying in his arms, his chin propped up on one hand, watching John wake up.

"You were right," John mumbled.

"About the talk of shagging at breakfast? Of course I was right."

"Good morning, darling," John gave Sherlock a quick kiss, avoiding his morning breath.

Sherlock smiled and rolled out of bed, stretched, and then turned for the bathroom.

John watched as he walked away, knowing Sherlock wanted him to watch. It was difficult not to, though. Sherlock had a fine arse.

John waited a few minutes before getting up. He didn't bother with getting dressed just yet. He padded into the bathroom just as Sherlock was stepping out of the shower. His hair was matted down against his head, a few stray curls sticking out at odd angles. There was the faintest hint of steam and the bathroom was filled with the subtle musk of Sherlock's soap.

John smiled and began to brush his teeth. Sherlock towelled off his hair and then shook his head like a dog; spraying droplets on the mirror and John.

"Oi! Waths that necessithary?" He said, still brushing his teeth.

"Considerably," Sherlock said. He stepped up and settled his hands on John's hips, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He pressed feather light kisses into the hollow of John's neck, leaning back as John spit into the sink.

"Are we going home today?"

"Doubtful. Mother had probably already had clothing for us bought or brought out."

"How long is she expecting us to say?"

"At least the weekend."

"Is that why you didn't want to come?"

"Yes, and the fact that the rest of my family is here and they are less than ideal."

"I like them. They're all brilliant," John smiled, "though not as much as you, of course." He quickly corrected at Sherlock small frown.

Sherlock finished drying off and tossed the towel to the floor. He walked out and John could hear the snap of his bureau. He changed his mind and stepped into the shower; turning on the water and feeling his muscles loosen under the hot water.

He washed and stepped out, quickly drying and emerging from the bathroom.

Sherlock was still standing in front of his bureau; debating two different suits that looked identical to John.

John stepped up and circled one arm around Sherlock's slim waist. "Reached an impasse?"

"I don't know what one to wear. Mother is always so particular about appearance."

Though John was loathe to ask, he said, "What is the difference between the two?"

Sherlock's scoff was palpable, "For starters the left is blue and the right is black. The black is single breasted Dolce and Gabana and the blue is double breasted Armani. The cut is slightly longer on the Armani, but the Dolce and Gabana has sleeves better suited for my arms and is fitted a slight tighter."

John had no idea why that was all so important. To him, they just looked like two really expensive suits. He did notice that one was blue and the other black after Sherlock had mentioned it.

"What do you think? And then," Sherlock said, reaching further into the bureau, "What shirt to go."

John grabbed a powder blue button down shirt and the black suit. He took them and set them on the bed, turning back to Sherlock.

"There," he said, "Problem solved."

Sherlock smiled, "Whatever you want." He hung the other clothing back up and turned to the suit on the bed. With a passing smirk to John, he dropped the towel. Standing there wearing nothing but a knowing smirk, John though that Sherlock had never been quite so beautiful.

"Like what you see?" Sherlock asked coyly.

"You know I do," John replied. He walked over to his suitcase that had apparently been brought over night and pulled out a plain knit chord jumper and trousers. He smirked, knowing Sherlock preferred him without pants.

Sherlock quickly dressed in his suit, also with no pants on, and returned to John's side. They walked into the kitchen for breakfast together.

"So I heard you two fucking last night," Sherrinford said. Naturally this was the first thing out of his mouth. Mycroft shot him another venomous look and Sherrinford only winked.

John and Sherlock pointedly ignored the comment and heaped their plates with breakfast; just eggs for Sherlock and toast and jam for John.

"So does my baby brother like it rough?" Sherrinford pursued. Mycroft gave a disgusted grunt and Violet had just walked into the room.

"What little brother do you mean? Because I have it on fine authority that Mycroft does, in fact, like it rough," Violet smiled pleasantly and took a scoop of eggs.

Mycroft was struggling to maintain his stoic composure, but it was quickly gaining cracks.

"No, Violet, Sherrinford was trying to be clever again. Shame it fell short," Sherlock said, "It would be expected though, considering many things of his fall short."

"Hey, hey there Sherlock. That was a bit below the belt don't you think?" Sherrinford winked at his younger brother who was rather put off by the lack of offense that his joke caused. Violet snorted into her bowl of cereal.

"Anyway, Johnny," Sherrinford continued, "You never answered me. Does Sherlock like it rough or slow and sweet? I bet he's a maniac in bed considering that he's a maniac everywhere else. I bet he let's you tie him up and fuck his mout-"

"Sherrinford! That is quite enough, thank you. We do not need that kind of talk at the breakfast table!" Mycroft was giving him a calm "I will end you" sort of glare.

John was silently thankful for the end of the topic, he was beginning to picture tying Sherlock up and fucking him in many different ways and it was getting him hard. Sherlock noticed and his eyes grazed across John's groin under the table; the slight raise obvious to his keen eye.

"John, do you care to see my horse?" Sherlock prompted.

"Of course. I didn't know you had a horse," John set his fork and napkin down.

They stood in unison and John offered a wave of goodbye to the rest of the table. Sherlock led John across the grounds and back towards a large barn that John hadn't noticed before. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. John's nostrils were filled with the scent that was unmistakably horse dung and hay.

There were two lines down the sides, each side had four stalls, and each stall contained a horse. Each grander and more muscled than the last, Sherlock led John down the corridor that separated the two sets. They reached the second to last on the right hand side. In the stall was a tall, proud, deep chocolate horse with a mane that matched that of Sherlock's in colour.

"He's beautiful," John said. He didn't know much about horses, but he imagined that the horse, like everything else the Holmes family owned, was expensive and the best money could buy.

"You think? I've always enjoyed riding," Sherlock offered one hand to the tall animal and began slowly petting its muzzle.

"Does he have a name?" John rested one hand on its neck, following the natural growth of hair.

"Of course he had a name, don't be daft. It's Galileo."

"Galileo, it is surprisingly perfect."

"I know it is. If it wasn't I wouldn't have given it to him."

John then noticed the small plaque above the doorframe that read Galileo in elegant curving script, Sherlock's script.

"Do you want to ride?" Sherlock asked, already setting his suit jacket up on the available hook and bringing down the saddle.

"You're going to ride in Dolce and Gabana?" John asked incredulously.

"Certainly. I've ridden in suits plenty of times."

John was glad he had opted for plain denim and a jumper. He nodded and Sherlock gave him a broad grin.

"It's not that I don't think you're perfectly capable, but I doubt Mother would want you riding any of our other horses. Do you mind riding with me?" Sherlock asked.

"No problem. I'm usually rubbish on a horse anyway. Harry and I went out once a few weeks before I was deployed. It didn't end well, though."

Sherlock slung the saddle over Galileo's back and patted his neck. He adjusted the buckles so that the saddle sat properly.

Sherlock stepped up on a stool and brought one leg up, landing easily on Galileo. The horse didn't move an inch, clearly comfortable with Sherlock astride him.

"C'mon, John. Up you come," Sherlock gestured to the stool and then offered his hand.

John tried to imitate Sherlock. He successfully got up on Galileo, but with considerable less grace than Sherlock had managed. He shifted so that he was comfortable and laced his arms around Sherlock's middle.

"Ready then," John said.

"Perfectly," was his only warning before they were out of the stables and easing into a full gallop towards a brilliantly open area behind the mansion.

John pressed instinctively closer to Sherlock, feeling the taller man's chuckle against his own chest.

Galileo pressed on until the house looked like nothing but a speck in the distance. Then they slowed to a walk and just enjoyed the silence and comfort of it all.

"John, I know Sherrinford's behaviour is deplorable," Sherlock said.

John though it was almost a real apology.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I don't really mind," John rested his head against Sherlock's back and breathed in the faint smell of sweat that lingered on his skin from the ride.

"John, may I ask you something?" Sherlock asked, nerves hinted in his voice.

"You will anyway, I don't really see the point in my answering," John said, truthfully and not intending for it to hurt.

Sherlock hid his hurt well.

"I would like for you to give me an answer, though."

"Yes, Sherlock, yu can ask me anything you want and I will answer it."

"Do you love me?"

John almost laughed, "Of course I love you. I've told you every day for two years that I love you just so you do not get some mad idea about me not loving you."

"But you mean it. I mean you really mean it."

"Yes, I really mean it."

John was just wondering what Sherlock was getting at when Sherlock asked, "John will you marry me?"

John nearly fell off Galileo. That was unexpected.

"What? Why would you ask that?" John replied, noting in his head that that was probably the exact wrong this to blurt out after being proposed to.

Sherlock seemed affronted, "Well if you don't want to you can just say so." He wheeled Galileo around and broke out into a canter back towards the barn.

"Wait! Sherlock stop, stop!" John cried out.

Sherlock slowed them to a walk, but didn't say anything to John.

"Are you serious about wanting to marry me?"

"Of course I am. That was another idiotic question."

John pretended he didn't hear the insult and just though for a bit. Life forever with Sherlock. It could be worse, and John couldn't imagine anything better. He gave it a moment of thought before grinning like a fool against Sherlock's back.

"Of course I'll marry you, you bloody idiot." John said.

Sherlock stopped Galileo completely and craned his neck back to get a glimpse of John.

"Do you mean that?" he asked.

"Of course I mean it."

"Do you really mean it?"

"Yes, Sherlock! Yes, I, John Watson, will marry you."

Galileo was off at a sprint again. They were still headed towards the house, but this time it was for a different purpose.


	4. Us Against the World

"You can't join the bloody military, John! You are going to be a Doctor. A damn fine one, too. I don't care if you don't want to be a surgeon anymore. Go be a bloody oncology professor for all I care, but you will be a doctor. A decent, proper doctor. Not some half-wit who couldn't be tossed to do a full residency and just went gallivanting across Afghanistan on a lark."

Charles Watson could yell and rage until he was blue in the face. John was already enlisted and was starting a four year tour in Afghanistan. Before he left his parents' home, the house where he grew up, John kissed his crying mother good-bye. He offered his hand to his father only to have it ignored. John only nodded, hurt but understanding. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, walked down the pathway to his car, and drove away.

That was almost eight years ago.

John hadn't seen nor spoken to his parents since that conversation. Now, he was waiting with Sherlock in their little flat for his parents to arrive.

They had finally managed to get home two days after they had gotten engaged. After telling the rest of Sherlock's family, Enola insisted on having a small party to celebrate. John met many other relatives of Sherlock's and learned that he was apparently due to inherit the title of Lord from a distant uncle who favored his work.

It was all more than John was used to. He was finally able to relax while Andrew was driving them home. Sherlock typed away at his phone, undoubtedly interrogating Lestrade for a new case.

John just settled back in the seat and fell asleep, rocked by the steady movement of the car above the pavement.

Now, though, he was back to being high strung and on edge. John paced about the flat; making tea, only nearly drinking the whole pot, making more.

Sherlock sat calmly perusing the photographs that Lestrade dropped off the day before. Two dead in a warehouse a block from the Thames. The bodies were untouched save for the fact that they didn't have any heads. Sherlock was enthralled.

The doorbell rang and John snatched the papers away, quickly stuffing them in the already full desk drawer.

"Do I look alright? Do we have enough tea? Do you think they'll mind the mess?" John fretted. Sherlock just dipped his head and pressed a chaste kiss against John's lips.

The flat had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. John was relentless in his cleaning. Sherlock had never seen the normally easy going man turn into a starchy housewife.

John walked down the stairs, drew a deep breath, and pulled the door open.

His parents stood there on the landing. His mother immediately flung herself into his arms, going on about how much she had missed him and how happy she was that he called.

She released him and John was left to face his father. The uncertainty was palpable, neither sure of the others' reaction. Then, without warning to pretense, Charles embraced his son.

"I'm so proud of you, kid."

It was all John could do to hug him back, completely thrown by the unexpected sincerity.

John led them both upstairs to where Sherlock waited on the sofa. He looked pristine and immaculate and completely absorbed within his own mind.

John gave a small cough and Sherlock was brought back from the warehouse by the Thames.

"Mum, Dad, this is Sherlock Holmes." John introduced.

John's mum hugged Sherlock as well. Sherlock, thankfully, gracefully reciprocated. Sherlock Shook Charles's hand.

"Firm handshake. Good on ya'," Charles remarked.

John hadn't told his parents that he and Sherlock were engaged. That was the purpose of having them here.

"Tea?" John offered.

"Certainly, thank-you." Nodded his mum.

John gave Sherlock a look before going into the kitchen to get the tea.

Sherlock ushered John's parents to the sofa and tossed out a false complement each. Sherlock hated John's parents. They caused John so much pain throughout his life, especially his father. John spent much of his adult life trying to prove to his father that the things he said that day were wrong. That he wasn't gallivanting across the desert because he was foolish. Trying to prove that he was honorable and was fighting for one of the few things that he really had faith in.

Sherlock wanted Charles Watson to know exactly how much he broke John, how much John tried to hide it. He wanted that man to understand that if he ever hurt John again, that he would find himself his own personal sociopath recklessly intent on his personal destruction.

Of course, Sherlock hid this behind a very convincing mask of pleasantries and small talk.

John returned with the tea, offering one to each of them before taking a sip of his own. He and Sherlock occupied their separate arm chairs, now pushed considerably closer together; their elbows nearly touching.

"So how is this new detective business of yours going?" Charles asked, "I heard you work with the Yard."

"It's going well, very well actually. Sherlock is the best consultant they have. Brilliant the things he observes." John replied.

"It's really not that important, John. Anyone could do it if they only opened their eyes to see beyond the bridge of their own noses." Sherlock didn't realize that he was coming off as a prat again.

"He's being modest," John said to his father, "Sherlock really is exceptional."

Charles watched the exchange with a sharp eye. He was lot of things, but daft could not be added to that list.

"So when, son, did you think you'd tell us that you had switched teams?" Charles said, his voice calm, but his body betraying his real thoughts.

John's parents had enough trouble accepting Harry, he was so unsure of how they would react to him.

"I-well-you see, Dad," John stammered.

"I think it's lovely, sweetheart." John's mum offered. She was always so sweet, so caring, and so understanding. Did not matter that people were different form her; it was fine, it was all fine.

"Thanks, Mum." John said. He was reassured by his mother's understanding.

Sherlock was tense. Insults were coiling and writhing on the tip of his tongue. If Charles spoke against John, he was being thrown out of this flat; bodily thrown out the window if necessary.

"Is it because of the army? Did they do this to you?" Charles said. Still calm, still steady.

"No, dad," John stated, simply.

"Mr. Watson," Sherlock began, "I would kindly like to ask just what the hell your problem seems to be with your son's sexual orientation. He is a perfectly honorable man and his merits are immediately discarded at the thought of his preferring men over women. So unless you should like to be branded as a hypocrite so soon after your declaration of pride, I would like an explanation."

"I will not be spoken to this way by a sorry excuse for a consultant. Too lazy to go out and get a proper job like a normal bloke, hm? Just at the state of this place I can tell that neither of you have a penny to his name and you're probably conning the Yard. The pair of you, a disgrace to England."

John stood up so fast his chair toppled over.

"We're getting married you arse!"

They all froze; John standing and red in the face, Charles sitting looking up at his son in disbelief, his wife looking at her son with a mixture of admiration and concern, Sherlock absolutely beaming.

"If you have a problem with that, Dad, that you can leave our flat," John lowered his voice and addressed his mum, "You're welcome to the wedding if you'd like. We have no date, no plan, and no idea what we're doing, but that's just fine."

Sherlock stood beside John, his height bringing him considerably higher than the still sitting Charles. Sherlock wrapped his hand in John's and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I was the pair of them against whatever the world wanted to throw at them. Always the pair of them.

Sherlock turned his eyes down as though looking upon a rat in the sewers, "You are free to go, Charles. Thank-you for coming. John was so eager to tell you our exciting news. He was glad to see you and a bit worried that you wouldn't attend considering that you didn't see him in the hospital nor at the ceremony when he received his Victoria Cross. I'm glad he got a chance to see you before you died."

Every word dripped like venom from a snake. They coiled and snapped, hitting right where it would hurt the most. The last sentence left hanging in the air like an empty noose.

John's parents quietly left. The door closed behind them with a soft click, they walked down the pathway to their car, and drove away.

John's shoulders slumped. He sat down heavily on the couch. John would only ever let Sherlock see him like this; broken, sad, uncertain. He rested his head on the armrest and drew his legs up to his chest.

Sherlock only stood there, watching as John was drawn within himself, lost in memories of his parents. Stepping away for a moment, Sherlock returned with tea. He set it on the table by John's head and kneeled on the floor before him.

Sherlock shed his jacket and the tie that he grudgingly put on for John that morning. He reached his hand up and began stroking John's hair, curling his fingers around the hair at the nape of his neck.

They sat like that in silence for a while. Sherlock had completely forgotten about the warehouse and the Thames and the bodies left without heads. His mind was saturated with John. It was pounding through his very core. _John. John John. John. John._

Finally, John exhaled and sat up. Sherlock quickly occupied the space where his torso had previously been. Sherlock drew John close to him and pressed a kiss against his forehead. This easy silent communication perfected after two years' practice.

They went upstairs to bed.

Somewhere between walking up the stairs and stepping out of the shower, John's mindset changed.

He realized that he didn't need his parents' approval to marry Sherlock. He didn't need his parents to take him by the hand and tell him how glad they were that he was theirs. John didn't need his father to tell his work buddies about how his son was a war hero. He didn't need his mum telling her book club that her son had earned the Victoria Cross. He didn't need either of them to tell the family at Christmas how great it was that John was solving crimes in London with his husband. He was a god damn grown man. Their approval be damned.

Sherlock was expecting John to step out of the bathroom much the same as he stepped into it. Instead, John walked out stark naked, took Sherlock's book, and tossed it to the floor. He pulled down the sheets and straddled Sherlock's hips. He leaned in for a rough, painful kiss. Sherlock's arms brought John's still damp body against his own flesh, holding his close. Sherlock always slept naked, there was no undressing or foreplay.

They were both achingly hard already. John began rutting against Sherlock and making the most gorgeous noises. Sherlock reached between them and took both of their cocks in his hand. His long fingers working them both quickly to the edge.

"No, Sherlock. I want to fuck you." John breathed out.

Without waiting for a response, he reached for the lube and rolled Sherlock onto his front.

Face pressed into the pillow and length trapped between flush skin and cotton sheets, Sherlock shivered with anticipation. He let out a gasp as John worked one finger in, quickly adding a second.

John withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his tongue. He licked and sucked and teased Sherlock wide open; reduced him to a writhing sensitive mess.

John spread lube across his length and filled Sherlock's willing arse. Finally, he slowed their pace. John fucked Sherlock with long, steady strokes. They weren't enough and John knew it.

"Harder, John. For fucks sake fuck me _harder_." Sherlock called, voice muffled in the pillow.

John complied, quickening his pace until the slap of skin on skin and the sour smell of sex permeated the air of their bedroom.

They both came in a flurry of movement, unashamed groans, and clenching of muscles.

John pulled out of Sherlock and rolled over so they lay side by side.

"I-uhm-I'm sorry about that." John said, the faintest hint of red creeping up his collar.

"Oh, why on earth would you be sorry? Fuck that was amazing." Sherlock was still catching his breath. John could be so careful and pleasing, but Sherlock preferred when John was desperate and passionate and borderline vicious.

"I'll just, you know…" John climbed out of bed and returned with a warm, damp towel. He wiped them both off and pulled down the sheet that had a wet spot on Sherlock's come spread across its middle.

They both curled up under the comforter and John rested his head on Sherlock's chest.

"Do I even want to know what brought that about?" Sherlock asked, his lips pressed in John's tousled hair.

"I realized that I'm a grown man."

"I'm glad that you've finally come to this conclusion, but I don't see how knowledge of your own life stage results in a shag that good. Not that I'm complaining, of course."

"I don't need my dad to need me."

Then Sherlock understood. It was, in a way, an act of defiance. John was a grown man and was going to make love with Sherlock as much as he damn well pleased. John was going to marry Sherlock because he wanted to, Charles be damned.

It was a strange feeling that gripped Sherlock. The same feeling that overcame him when John agreed to marry him, the same feeling that he got when John first kissed him, the same feeling he got every time he caught John's looking at him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Sherlock loved him so much. It nearly burned him from the inside out to know that John loved him the same.

The night curled around them. The orange glow of the streetlights stretching shadows across their bedroom floor. The stars were hardly visible, but Sherlock knew exactly what ones shone in the sky beyond the layer of light pollution and cloud cover that London always harbored.

It was like catching a glimpse into the future. Long nights spent lying in bed, Sherlock thinking about one thing or another and John slowly reaching sleep.

Sherlock wanted this. John wanted this. They both wanted the other forever.

They would stand together against their families, against the London criminals, against the whole world if necessary.


End file.
